In the Rain
by CognacGirl-CG
Summary: Sarkney'ish. Belated bday fic. Early S2 - Pre Phase One. Sydney runs into Sark in a Texas Bar.


**Title: **In the Rain  
**Author: **CG  
**Feedback:** Would love to hear what you have to say. If criticism, please make it constructive.   
**Disclaimer:** Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot productions. I also don't own any lyrics to 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain' by Elvis Presley.   
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary:** Very, very, very belated birthday fic for **carmen_sandiego**. Sorry it's so late, dearie, but I can't force the muse to cooperate.   
Requirements were as follows. Whatever ship you want, but no slash please. Some kind of Elvis song, with the exception "Heartbreak Hotel", "Hound Dog", or "All Shook Up" (let's use one of his lesser known ones). A drink splashed in someone's face. A thunderstorm. A childhood memory.   
Mid S-2, pre Phase One. Sydney still works for SD-6.  
**Ship:** Sarkney  
**Rating:** R  
**Distribution:** Cover Me and Dark Enigma. All others please ask. 

Bangkok tycoon Sakda Boonmee strolled from his fully equipped one-ton truck, sans security, into the small Texan bar without a care in the world. The picture Sydney had seen of him mere hours ago bared little resemblance to the man who strutted with his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans, but even from her reclining position, a couple hundred feet away, she knew it was him. No longer the suit wearing, clean-shaven executive, Boonmee looked like just your run of the mill man. 

He blended in with the raucous crowd well for a middle-aged Thai man, looking contented in the role he was playing tonight. Then again, his participation in the western scene in Thailand was high upon the list of his eccentricities. The man's strategically faded Levis, soft cotton button up western styled shirt, and lowered Stetson downplayed his extensive wealth and aided him in looking like one of the boys. 

The cowboys.

They seemed to come in droves to the stunted building, pulling up in their weather-beaten work trucks after a hard day, looking for a bit of the good ole' country to help them relax. That didn't surprise Sydney. It was Friday, after all, mid-spring, and this was one of the most popular bars for the dirt laden ranching man. What did stun her was how all that testosterone fit inside such a cramped spot, without much insurgence. 

Then again, it was still early. 

She shifted atop the uncomfortable metal below her, biding her time, and turned her gaze from the man as he disappeared into the dimly lit joint to the view above. She smelled the electricity in the air, a distinct scent that intermingled with the stench of bar wafting out to her. In the distance, the faint rumbling of thunder carried on the wind, and that too mixed with her surroundings – the cicadas, the powerful engines of the 4x4s coming and going, the muffled voices enjoying the nightlife, and the twang of guitar heavy music. 

The clouds were just now pouring in, starting to cover a sky that had been clear for most of the day in warning of the impending storm. The threat of it as real as the claw-like clouds that reached out to one another. There was still a large expanse open for her to view, but the space grew smaller by the second. 

In that area above, stars pulsed and glittered against the night's pitch black shade, and she watched as one white speck took a leap from its place in the dark canopy, leaving a pale tail shimmering in its wake. The falling effect brought back a stark memory of one of the few summers she'd had with her mother, and the smile that automatically formed on her face was bittersweet. 

_"Now this is an old ritual, __Sydney__," her mother murmured from her place next to her daughter on the tattered quilt. The blanket was so comforting even if the immense fade in coloring made it appear to be as old as time. "One that has been passed down through all generations on my side of the family."_

_"Wishing upon a star?" __Sydney__ asked, never taking her eyes form the heavens above. _

_"Yes," the older woman replied with a smile and a light laugh. "You've heard of it before?"_

_Sydney__ looked at her mother as if she'd sprouted another head. "Duh. You're the one who took me to watch Pinocchio."_

_"That's right," her mother mused lazily. She tilted her head closer to her daughter's, bringing the two together to rest. "So now it's your turn. But remember, it's only the falling stars that really count."_

_"Falling stars?" the young girl inquired._

_"The ones that have shined for so long and so bright they get too tired and need to find rest. Kind of like you after you eat a bowl of ice cream at the end of the night."_

_The young girl's giggle ended with a wistful sigh. She wished that all moments with her mom could be like this. So fun and carefree. The only addition needed was for her dad to come home for this wish to be complete. Just as the entire wish skittered through her mind, she saw a beam of light hurriedly descend from the sky. _

_"Was that one?" she asked excitedly._

_"Yes!" her mother answered. "Now when it falls you need to make a wish. And make sure you never tell a soul or else it won't come true."_

_Sydney smiled at her good fortune, not only did she make a wish, but she thought of it right as the star plummeted from the sky. And when she heard the back door of her house close moments later, a sign that her dad was finally home, there was no doubt in her mind that her wish would come true. _

Memories like those no longer brought a sheen of mist to her jaded eyes. Thoughts of a doting mother and a never callous father no longer burned with the intense pain it once had. The naivety of a young girl thriving off of having both a mother and father who loved her with every ounce they had and would never hurt their daughter or each other was what young ones expected. 

Thoughts of betrayal, murder, agendas, and prophecies would never develop in a mind so young. 

Logically, she was over it and knew none of it was her fault. Illogically, a small part of her sometimes wondered how her life would have differed had that wish come true. 

Sydney slid down the hood of the old truck she'd appropriated in Dallas, wiping the thin layer of dust from the rear of her starched 501s after her boots hit the dirt. She'd spent too much time admiring the dark sky with its craggy fingers covering it, and reminiscing about things in her past she couldn't change. 

This wasn't a vacation or therapy. The haunting memories of her misappropriated childhood innocence didn't need to be dredged up any longer. She needed to get to Boonmee and the chip carrying the code Sloane requested as proof her loyalty. 

She crunched through the gravel lot, the narrow toe of her Old Gringo's kicking a few dormant pebbles and sending them airborne in a move to show her bogus jovial mood. She, too, had downplayed her appearance – stiff dark navy denim coating her long legs, a blue and white checkered western cut shirt that blended nicely, and a matching denim jacket. The coat, chosen for its concealing properties more than style, was long enough to hide the Glock in her waistline. 

Her appearance was fitting, but not outstanding compared to the loose woman she saw scattered amongst the men. Women with shirts and skirts so short a hint of tit or cheek peeked out, or jeans so tightly formed to them, the frontal view presented the occasional camel toe. The male attention was reserved for those women, which suited her just fine. 

She was just a lone cowgirl – long dark hair bouncing with each step – in the land of cowboys. 

Sydney made it past the man at the door with no fuss, the bar's laxity over armed patrons assisting in her entry. The room was filled with strong distinct odors; the smoky and woody smell of tobacco – plumes of white clouds or brown stains from chaw – the yeasty scent of ingested and spilled beer, and the dankness of manly sweat emanating from soiled bodies. 

The entire bar gave the impression of being authentic, burnt wood lining the interior – both walls and floor – and fixtures that appeared to be straight out of the nineteenth century. 

On her left stood a long antique bar, men lined up against the old wood in a leaning stance, a few braiding pieces of rawhide with strong and calloused fingers, whole others perched lazily on battered stools, cold ale cupped in their hands. In front of her lay a small space reserved for dancing, and even though a tinny twang of upbeat music filled the bar, the floor resided as empty. And finally, on her right, a hodgepodge of tables and chairs sat, most sets already occupied. 

That was where she found Boonmee, at a table for two, both seats taken. Both by men she knew. 

Her first stop was the bar where she ordered a club soda with lime to the bartender's distaste. Once the glass was secured in her hand, she wandered back over to the tables, weaving through the rambunctious crowd. 

As Sydney neared her destination, she brushed past a blonde woman who proudly displayed a set of double D's in a skimpy tank top. The woman was laughing flippantly as she flirted with two paunchy men, using her gifts to guarantee herself a good time for the night. A smile formed on Sydney's lips as she reached the table of the two men deep in quiet conversation. 

Using the cramped space between her and the woman to her advantage, Sydney bounced her arm off the woman's ample chest and allowed her glass to tumble from her grasp. The cold liquid was tossed into the air, spilling down spiked blond hair and a western dressed chest. 

"Oh gawd," she drawled, immediately bending over the blond man and blotting up the liquid on his chest and lap. Her hair swept over her cheek, conveniently shading her face from his view. 

In a perfectly faked honey toned Texan accent, the man bumbled back. "Nah, honey. It's all right. No need ta bother ya'self over a little spilt drink."

Discreetly, she pulled her Glock from its place and gradually brought it near the man's side. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault," she whined, the napkin now too soaked to be of much use. "I'm so darn clumsy sometimes."

"It's all right," he replied more firmly, trying to pry her wandering hand from him. 

Before he could realized her intentions, Sydney had her hand fixed on his piece inside his worn thermal lined denim jacket. He stilled as she thrust her gun into his ribs, startled by the feel of cold metal. She tilted her head up to look into familiar blue eyes. 

Sydney smiled, mischief glittering in her eyes as she rubbed the gun against Sark's side, just in case he had any question about what it was. "I just can't seem to make it through the day without ruining something," she added, the words she used chosen purposely to taunt him. 

She saw a muscle twitch irritably in his jaw before he spoke, "Sounds about right."

Across the table, Sydney heard a rumbling chuckle coming from Boonmee, a sound that was disguised by a curt clearing of his throat. She glanced at the older man, seeing him eye the situation with humor and something else. Something any person could misconstrue. 

Then, quite abruptly, the tone of the noisy bar changed right along with the music. An old slow song rang out in the air, making those inside instantly subdue their voices and other clatter. 

Pushing his chair back, Boonmee stood, grinning down at them. "Well, I'll take this as my cue to leave. We're done with our business here."

"Indeed we are," Sark offered with a slight nod of his head. 

Boonmee hesitated, a pensive look covering his craggy features as the ambiance around him soaked in. "Hmmm… The King," he mused aloud. "Nothing like a good Presley song to start off something new, no?" He tipped his hat to Sark as he departed, shouldering a burlap bag that he didn't enter the bar with. "It's a shame these people don't pay tribute to the man. Why don't you two take advantage of all that space out there?"

Sydney returned her attention to Sark, who did the same after Boonmee left, capturing her gaze with one so heated it sizzled down to her marrow. But before she could decipher the source of that intensity, it disappeared. 

Sark secured her grip on his piece with his own hand while shoving her gun further into his rib. He didn't even flinch over the biting sensation he had to feel. 

"Wouldn't want to shun Elvis, now, would we?"

His words, spoken with unhurried calm instead of malevolence, rushed a steady stream of unease through her. And as the crowd moved in around them, thick and stifling, she lost the option of discharging. So when he stood and started to lead her to the floor, she was in no position to argue. 

_In the twilight glow I see her_

"It appears we're at an impasse, Ms. Bristow," Sark murmured when they stopped in the darkest corner of the floor, far away from the bulk of the patrons. His confidence snapped her out of her momentary daze, a quick re-check of the scenario suggesting something completely opposite. 

"Hardly," she countered, nudging the hand on hers holding his gun. "Remove your hand slowly and place it on my hip."

He quirked a brow at her request, but slowly complied to the extent that Sark would. This meant instead of her hip, his hand came to rest on the lower slope of her back, just north of her buttocks. The bastard smiled the entire time. Figuring it would take too much effort to argue, she let the intentional slip slide. She used the opportunity to remove his weapon and place it inside her waistband, out of his reach. 

"Now where's the chip?"

His smirk seemed plastered to his face, and his hips slowly rocked to the music, his hand guiding her along with him. "Chip?"

Sydney dug the gun further into the slat of one rib, this time successful in drawing a flinch from him. "Men don't do coy. Where's the chip?"

Steadily turning them in a circle, Sark learned closer, his lips causing havoc by grazing her earlobe. "If you want it so badly, you can find it."

His whisper, warm and soft as it trickled down her ear, elicited a deep shudder from her. One that was easily quelled, but she could only wonder where the hell it came from. She cleared a caught breath from her throat and punished him for her reaction by prodding his foot with the heel of her boot. 

"Oops," she chirped sarcastically. 

Sark responded by forcefully wedging his knee between her thighs and pulling her closer, aligning their bodies from chest to thigh. This time her gasp was audible, forced form her throat as he strong-armed it right out of her diaphragm. 

"If you want it. Find it," he repeated, his tone chilled.

She took an unsteady hand to his jacket first, patting down the outer and inner pockets, coming up empty. She circled around to his back, running up and down the expanse of muscled back bound in the right fitting button up shirt before moving back to the front, checking the two shirt pockets. Still nothing. 

Touching lower, she slid two fingers inside his waistband and traced the circumference. Nothing. Lower still, she warily inspected his front and back jeans pockets. Both sets filled with that same nothing. 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sydney asked, her frustration evident. 

"More than you know." His smooth smile roused something inside her, a feeling she promptly ignored since frustration seemed more viable. 

Thick denim brushed against thick denim as they moved, the reaction warming her limbs and resembling the olden days when cowboys would light their matches with a quick swipe of their jeans. It was merely friction, she convinced herself, a normal reaction when fabrics so rough rub together, nothing more. 

She knew she was running out of options. Her heart throbbed erratically against her chest, the strength of the beats bringing a lump to her throat. A lump that only tightened when her hand slid over the fly of his jeans. She pulled back to look at him and watched his Adam's apple bob in a strange, almost unsteady manner. 

Bingo.

_Blue eyes crying in the rain_

Even over the song she could hear rain pelting as it splattered unevenly on the thin roof. The storm had rolled in, not only outdoors, but in. Sark's eyes proved it, the turbulent blues glinting in the bar's weak light. But those blues, unlike the song, would likely never cry – even tears of humiliation. 

In that way, she almost wished they were the same. 

Carefully, Sydney slid the zipper down, each tooth the head caught seeming to click louder than the music. She couldn't help but hold his gaze as the zipper descended, unsure why she wanted to watch for a flicker of emotion. At the same time, she hoped hers weren't plainly viewed on her face. 

Her hand skimmed inside the hole, feeling soft, tight cotton touching her fingers, and she tried futilely to swallow against the knob filling her throat. 

"Briefs?" She couldn't believe that just came out of her mouth. 

"Boxer briefs," Sark responded automatically. And if she wasn't mistaken, the words sounded a bit gruff. 

He shifted them around the floor still, both of their motions more an automatic sway than staged movies. Sydney bit her lip as she reached into the front access paned of his briefs and felt a strange heat coat the inside of her body when she met skin. 

Sark sucked in a sharp breath, but made no movement otherwise. Sydney closed her eyes to concentrate on what she couldn't see, only feel. And what she felt when her hand completely disappeared into his briefs made her blush all the way up to the roots of her wig-covered hair. 

"You're doing that on purpose," she gritted out in a vehement whisper as her hand encountered Sark's shaft, standing at half-mast. She should have been prepared for anything. This was no time for infantile reactions. 

"Don't flatter yourself, Sydney," he bit back through clenched teeth just as her knuckles grazed the soft skin of his sac. She held her breath as his dick pulsed, gently tapping her lower forearm like she didn't know it was there. Her hand lingered in its spot, a moment of insecurity washing over her and making her question if this was truly necessary. 

_Yes it is, _she intoned adamantly. It was the only way to ensure an end to SD-6. 

Before she could switch back to job mode, Sark twitched again, his thickening column brushing more insistently against her. She jumped at the surprise contact, accidentally punching a sliver of his most sensitive skin between two fingers. He bucked his hips, swearing under his breath, then focused his unnerving gaze on her widened eyes. 

"Now who's doing this on purpose," he replied heatedly, petulance darkening his eyes and marking the thin line of his mouth. 

Sydney ignored him and slid her hand lower, more careful to avoid touchy areas this time, and found the seat of his boxer briefs. Rummaging through the tight space, she stumbled upon something hard, but thankfully this time metal. 

A triumphant grin slowly spread across her lips, and the breath that she'd absently been holding gushed out. She took the chip between two fingers and began to draw it out of his pants. 

_When we kissed goodbye and parted_

Shoving the small chip into the front pocket of her jeans, she mentally readied herself to leave, and not a moment too soon. This, in so many ways, had to have been one of her toughest missions. Her gun, still situated against his side, had kept enough pressure on him to likely leave a bruise. That alone felt like retribution. 

In a manner too cool – belying the head flushing her body over the intimate contact – she leaned in closer, keeping her body flush up against him. 

"Good boy," she drawled in her thick accent. "Now be a true sweetheart and stay right here while I walk out of here with the prize."

To her amazement, she reached the door with no problems. When she dared a glance back, she found Sark still on the floor – rooted in the same spot – watching her intently. His face showed nothing, his stance cool. She wondered for a moment what he was thinking, but when she opened the door leading outside, the sudden roar of thunder jolted that thought right out. 

_I knew we'd never meet again_

Sydney ran through the downpour, a maelstrom of thick drops hitting and drenching her jacket, shirt and jeans quickly. Only when she entered the cab of her truck did she allow a moment to pull the wet fabric from her skin, shaking out any excess water that she could. 

As her cold hands fumbled with the keys, a rush of unease suddenly swept through her. Too easy. Besides her own comfort level, she was barely challenged. And Sark, he barely objected to her retrieving the chip. 

Like he'd let her have it on purpose. 

"It doesn't matter now," she whispered to herself. 

She stuck the key in the ignition and forced the doubts from her head. No need to think about those things now. She needed to get on the road, back to L.A. Engine started, she shoved the truck into drive and cruised through the lot to find the smooth road of highway. 

Everything was all right now. She was safe once again. The threat of Sloane had been temporarily put on hold. Still it took too much within her to be convinced she could begin to calm down. 

The newly strong and steady thrum of her pulse kicked up a notch when her headlights flashed upon the silhouette of a person in her path. Slamming on the brakes, her worn truck tires skidding through the gravel, Sydney came within a few feet of striking the man. 

Sark. 

Prepared for any threat he offered now, she reached for her Glock, aiming it at what she hoped was his forehead. He shielded his eyes with one arm, the other arm hanging empty at his side, but didn't seem phased that he'd almost been hit. And the smirk on his face told her he was neither surprised about who was behind the wheel. 

Sydney instantly envied the wind and rain as they beat against him like her twitching hand wished it could. 

Pieces of his hair, darkened by rain, stuck flat to his head while rivulets of water dropped from his face and soaked into his damp chest. His breath made little clouds of steam in the dark, which oddly reminded her of being so close to him moments before. She could still feel the warmth of his body, suffusing hers, or maybe she'd just kicked the heater on too high. 

"Move," she mouthed, her lips clearly stating what he couldn't hear. 

He didn't budge an inch and Sydney practically snorted as she watched his free hand grab for his jeans zipper and yank it back up, the joke between them alone. And that shook her too, giving her body a wicked start. 

A joke, between her and a man like Sark. They shouldn't even be on such close terms. 

Her eyes narrowed and he finally heeded, stepping to the side and sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture of letting her pass. Her foot depressed on the pedal and it took all her restraint to not at least flip him off as she drove by. 

Seconds later, she safely found and entered the highway, taking the first steps in going home. As she accelerated on the empty stretch of road, Sydney glanced in her rearview mirror seeing just a shadow, standing in the rain. 


End file.
